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YOUR BOOK AND MINE 















































































YOUR BOOK AND MINE 


BY 



MARGARET E. SANGSTER 

n 



CARROLL PRESS 
NEW YORK 




Mz*> 


Copyright, 1923, by 
Carroll Press 


©C1A7G5313 


DEC 13 1923 


Dedication 


To my pen-and-ink friends — and to those who, though 
they have never written to me, perhaps, are also my 
friends! 

















NOTE 


Some of the verses in this book have been reprinted 
from The Christian Herald, The Saturday Evening Post , 
The New York Sun, Scribner’s, The Elks Magazine, and 
the Argosy-All Story. To these magazines the author 
wishes to give acknowledgement, and thanks. 









\ 



Your Book and Mine: 



This volume, which I have called, “Your Book and 
Mine” was compiled especially for those pen-and-ink 
friends who, through their encouragement and counsel and 
affection, have made all of my working hours so pleasant. 
The following pages are sweet, to me, with thoughts of the 
ones for whom they were bound together. 

Just nine articles, from The Christian Herald, have 
been included in this book. They are the articles 
which have inspired the largest number of letters from 
my readers—for I have tried to keep a careful count 
of such letters. The verses have been gathered from 
various magazines, some of them are newly written, 
and some of them are the ones that members of The 
Christian Herald family have loved. 

“Your Book and Mine” is divided into three parts. 
The first part I think of as the “happy part”— for in it 
I have placed the bits of writing that folk have, through 
letters, told me that they enjoyed. The second part 
might be called inspirational or thoughtful or helpful 
— what you will! For it holds the fragments that 
have, according to my friends, carried the stuff of 
dreams to lonely hearts. And the last part is made up of 
those things that I hope have brought a ray of light into 
some shadowy place—that have perhaps given comfort. 

I hope that you, my friends, will like “Your Book 
and Mine.” For I cannot help feeling that it belongs 
more—oh, so much more—to you than it does to me! 

Margaret E. Sangster. 

New York City. 

in] 




"N 








Your Book and Mine 


CONTENTS 

1 — From A Happy Heart. 

page 

1. the returning.19-20 

2. rainy-weather clothes (Article) . . . 21-25 

3. hurdy-gurdy.26 

4. to a little pine tree—in winter ... 27 

5. daguerreotype. 28 

6. there's nothing so sweet.29 

7. a book oe verses. 30-31 

8. in a shop window. 32 

9. FROM A SECOND HAND STORE (Article) . . 33-36 

10. SPANISH PAN. 37 

11. WHEN YOU ARE SIEENT. 38 

12. CUPID weather.39-40 

13. AN OLD SILHOUETTE. 41 

14. reaching toward the sun (Article) . . . 42-45 

15. THE ROAD TO HAPPINESS. 46-47 

16. child's prayer. 48 

2— A Bit op Inspiration. 

1. home .. 53-54 

2. VIOLETS IN WINTER. 55 

3. valentine. 56 

4. blue curtains in a window (Article) . . 57-60 

5. PUSSY WILLOWS. 61 

6. park trees. 62-63 

7. a slum street. 64-65 

8. WINDOW BOX.66 


[ 13 ] 





















CONTENTS 


PAGE 

9. COUNTRY ROAD .67 

10. when you climb The HIDE (Article) . . 68-72 

11. ENCHANTMENT. 73-74 

12. A GUEST ROOM .75 

13. the wanderer . 76-77 

14. HAUNTED HOUSE. 78 

15. HORIZON .79 

16. bitter-sweet ..80 

17. WRITE CHEEREUE letters (Article). . . 81-85 

18. INDIAN SUMMER. 86-87 

19. WHEN AUTUMN COMES—A PRAYER . . . 88-89 

3 —Words of Comfort. 

1. A PRAYER FOR MEMORY-ON NEW YEARNS DAY 93-94 

2. admitting things (Article).95-98 

3. a song of march . 99 

4. WHEN TEARS ARE CLOSE. 100 

5. APRIL WIND. 101-102 

6. ANSWER.103 

7. AWAKENING.104 

8. THE CHILD YOU used To be (Article) . . 105-107 

9. ROMANCE LAND. 108-109 

10. WHEN EASTER COMES. HO 

11. DECORATION DAY. 111-112 

12. petition .113-114 

13. frosted GLASS (Article).115-118 

14. BACK OF THE SUNSET .119-120 


[ 14 ] 






















I 


* 


Where sunlight is, and kindness is, 
Where spring is oft returning, 

Where every cottage shows the gleam 
Of vivid hearth fires burning. 

Where children laugh, and flowers bloom, 
And envy enters never, 

There friendship dwells, and happiness 
Lives there forever! 








I 





The Returning 


THE RETURNING 

The little girl I used to be 
Came back to call, today; 

Her chubby little knees were scratched, 
Her blue hair ribbons weren’t matched, 
Yet, watching her, I seemed to see 
Deep in her eyes of gray— 

A spark of something that has grown 
Into the heart of me. 

She seemed at first a small unknown, 
We had few words to say— 

We tried to laugh and chat, but we 
Were centuries away, 

Until her fingers touched my hand, 
And, over mists of years, 

I knew that she could understand, 

And smiled at her, through tears! 

And then we talked of many things, 
Of dreams we used to know; 

I told her that grown-up land brings 
A challenge to the heart that sings— 
She told me, mousy-low, 

Her pursed-up mouth against my ear, 
About her doll, of all most dear, 

That we had loved and laid away 
When we had grown too big to play! 

[19] 





Your Book and Mine 


The little girl I used to be, 

Came back to call, today; 

Her smile was wide and very glad, 

And yet her eyes were almost sad— 
Perhaps because of me! 

For I sit at a desk and write, 

And seldom watch the firelight 
For pictures, any more— 

I do not wonder, when it’s dark, 

If bears and woolly dogs that bark, 
Lurk just behind the door. . . . 

Pier chubby little knees were scratched, 
Her blue hair ribbons weren’t matched, 
My blouse was new and neat— 

And, oh, I saw the eyes of her, 
Watching, through just a little blur, 
My skirt, ’most to my feet! 

I wonder can she ever know, 

Or ever really see— 

The spark of her that, like a glow, 
Lights all the soul of me? 


[20] 





Rainy-Weather Clothes 


Rainy-Weather Clothes 

It was a rainy day—a rainy day plus! The weather 
was so very inclement that the word rainy didn’t describe 
it at all. The rain fell in veritable sheets of gray water; 
a heavy wind, slashing down the side streets, was doing 
as much damage to umbrellas and dresses and awnings 
as possible. It was a good day to stay in the house—the 
sort of a day when open fires and kitchen ranges have a 
decided charm. 

And yet there were many folk upon the broad dripping 
avenues and the wind-swept side streets. For in the city 
work goes on as usual, no tnatter how unpleasant the 
weather may be. There were men in tight-buttoned coats, 
and women in mackintoshes. There were small hurrying 
boys, and young girls with damp slippered feet—for the 
modern girl is wont to disdain rubbers! And there were 
many others, all hastening—in the way of business—to¬ 
ward some none too-certain refuge from the weather. 

I, too, was out upon the street. I, too, was hurrying 
to keep a business appointment. My heavy jacket was 
buttoned close to my throat, and my umbrella was held 
low over my head. Despite the rain I did not feel very 
wet or uncomfortable. I was almost smiling, I think, 
when the wind—taking advantage of my apparent security 
—swept suddenly upon me and wrenched the umbrella 
from my unsuspecting hand. Before I could capture it, 
it had danced away from me, into the middle of the street. 
And as I darted after it the wind—not quite satisfied— 
gave one more naughty puflf. And the umbrella, eluding 
my eager hand, found a lodging place between the heavy 

[21] 




Your Book and Mine 


wheels of a passing motor truck. There was a slight 
grinding noise and, as the truck went on its way, all 
unknowing, I saw that my umbrella had been reduced to 
a bent wire or two, a broken wooden handle, and a few 
fragments of black silk. 

There was nothing to do but buy a new umbrella, for 
the gray sheets of rain were doing really terrible things 
to my hat and jacket. Without more ado I turned from 
the wreck in the middle of the street and scurried into a 
nearby shop. And there, pausing in front of a counter, 
I made known my wants. 

The clerk behind the counter was a young girl with 
pink cheeks, and the star dust of dreams in her clear blue 
eyes. It seemed to me, as I glanced at her, that she 
should be doing something more colorful and vivid than 
the mere selling of umbrellas. She had all of the clean 
romance and freshness of springtime about her. And 
umbrellas, at best, are not exciting! And yet, in just a 
very few minutes, I found that I had made a mistake. 
For selling umbrellas, to her, was not a stupid profession. 
She made it real and beautiful by the power of her 
imagination. 

“Do you know,” she said to me, and her voice was the 
most cheerful thing that I had listened to for many a 
day, “do you know—I wish you wouldn’t buy a black 
umbrella!” 

I had asked for a black umbrella. I have always asked 
for black umbrellas, quite as a matter of habit. No other 
clerk had ever suggested any change. So it was not 
strange that the girl’s suggestion—if it could be called 
a suggestion—came as a complete surprise to me. 

[22] 




Rainy-Weather Clothes 


"Just why,” I asked her, "do you wish that I wouldn’t 
buy a black umbrella?” 

The girl smiled up at me, and a tiny dimple flickered, 
for an instant, in one of her pink cheeks. 

"I don’t like black umbrellas,” she told me, "I don’t 
like black umbrellas at all! I hate to sell ’em! I’d almost 
rather sell no umbrellas than black ones. Rainy days are 
dreary enough, goodness knows, without black things. 
And yet people always wear dark old clothes on rainy 
days and almost all of them buy dark old umbrellas—just 
as you were going to buy one!” 

I couldn’t help laughing softly. But I wasn’t laughing 
at the girl—I was laughing with her. 

"What shall I buy?” I questioned, "since I don’t want 
to hurt your feelings—what shall I buy?” 

All at once the girl was childishly eager. 

"Buy a red umbrella,” she told me, "or a green one, or 
a purple one. They don’t cost a bit more than the black 
umbrellas, and they’re much prettier! Why, just seeing 
a gay umbrella opened up on the street makes the whole 
world seem brighter and happier. Rainy-day things— 
clothes and hats and neckties and umbrellas—should be 
cheerful enough to make folks forget all about the 
weather!” 

I compromised on a purple umbrella. I paid for it 
with a sensation of utter recklessness, and said good-bye 
to the pink-cheeked little clerk, and went out again into 
the street. And with a feeling of extreme self-conscious¬ 
ness (for I have owned black umbrellas all my life!) I 
opened it up for the world to gaze upon. And then 
—because I had suddenly remembered my business ap¬ 
pointment—I hurried on. 


[23] 




Your Book and Mine 


The purple umbrella was bright. And pretty, too. It 
made a pleasant little reflection upon the wet sidewalk— 
a wee lavender colored reflection that scurried in front 
of me like a small bit of rainbow. In all the sea of mov¬ 
ing black umbrellas it was the only light spot—the only 
cheerful color note. It made me vaguely happy—curi¬ 
ously proud. I felt like a little girl-child with her first 
pink sash. I felt as a small boy feels when somebody 
has given him a puppy dog for his very own! I think 
that I made a better impression, when I finally kept 
my appointment, because of that feeling. I think that I 
felt stronger and healthier because of it. I almost think 
that the other people—the strangers who passed me by on 
the street—were aware of my happiness. 

And so—because in my own case it has proven true— 
I can’t help thinking that the little clerk was right. Rainy- 
weather clothes should be gay clothes—cheerful clothes! 
We shouldn’t put on our oldest, saddest garments because 
the sky is hidden from us by storm clouds and there is 
a heavy wind and a chilling rain. We should wear a bit 
of brave color to offset the cheerlessness of the day. 

Rainy weather happens every so often—it can’t be 
avoided. Every so often we must have our unpleasant 
times. Sometimes the rainy weather is one of nature’s 
stormy days and sometimes it’s a rainy day of the spirit. 
Sometimes the rainy day comes in the form of a soul¬ 
stirring conflict—sometimes it comes in the shape of great 
trouble and stress and despair. 

If it’s one of nature’s rainy days we do the natural 
thing—we get out storm clothes and umbrellas. And it 
it’s one of the other kind of rainy days we do approxi¬ 
mately the same thing. We get out those defences—mental 

[24] 





Rainy-Weather Clothes 


and physical and spiritual—that we hope will protect 
us most efficiently from the storm. 

Usually our rainy-day clothes are dark colored. For 
the most part the umbrellas that we carry, to ward off the 
sheets of gray water, are black ones. And the defences 
that we have to protect us from the other sort of rainy day 
are usually sober ones, of no particularly vivid hue. Often¬ 
times the very bravery of us is a sad-eyed, straight-lipped 
bravery! And—friends of mine—that isn’t the best sort 
of bravery. 

When it’s raining—the real sort of rain—and we have 
to go out, away from the fireside and the easy chair, let’s 
make our rain-day clothes as cheerful as possible. Let’s 
carry a bright umbrella, or pin on a knot of ribbon, or 
tuck a flower into the lapel of our coats. And when we’re 
meeting the other kind of a storm let’s clothe our spirits, 
and our hearts, in the gayest of colors. Let’s meet our 
rainy days with a smile and a snatch of song and a 
glad word! 


[35] 




Your Book and Mine 


HURDY-GURDY 

Broken tunes, and rusty tunes, and tired tunes together, 
Packed into a little box that travels through the city— 
Tunes that seem as sultry as the early summer weather, 
Songs of love, and songs of home, and songs of hate 
and pity! 

How the children flock to it, tattered dresses flying, 
Tiny feet in ragged shoes that dance because they must; 
Music in the weary slums, where dreams are slowly dying, 
Where the air is thick with heat and hopelessness and 
dust. . . . 

Music in the better streets—the organ man is eager 
As he doffs his greasy cap to catch a chance coin, tossed ; 
Music in the better streets, the price of it is meagre, 

Old songs, and new songs, and songs the heart has lost! 

Here a white haired man has paused— “Dixie,” “Annie 
Lourie ”— 

There a smiling girl looks down, from a window high. 
Just because a thread of song has murmured love's old 
story; 

Melody for everyone, for all the world to buy! 

» 

Music in a little box, sorry tunes and mad ones, 

Swept across the city through the early summer weather; 
Merry songs for happy hearts, and wistful songs for sad 
ones— 

Broken tunes, and rusty tunes, and laughing tunes 
together! 


[26] 




To a Little Pine Tree— in Winter 


TO A LITTLE PINE TREE—IN WINTER 

I think you were a princess, long ago, 

Before you ever were a little tree; 

The way you wear your silver cloak of snow, 

Seems very regal, very grand, to me. 

You stand so slenderly against the sky, 

As if the clouds might crown your graceful head; 
You never bow when winter winds brush by, 
Among the other trees, so brown and dead. 

I think you were a princess, long ago, 

A pretty princess with a kindly heart— 

The tiny, lonesome sparrows seem to know 
A comfort in your branches . . . Quite apart 
From all the forest do you stand, far under 
The frozen ground, where only roots belong, 

I think you keep a singing soul, I wonder 

If wistful woodland creatures hear your song? 

I think you were a princess, long ago, 

Your branches are like arms as they reach out, 

In stately greeting to the earth below, 

Your loveliness is free of care or doubt. 

Do you stand dreaming through the frosty hours? 

You seem so unconcerned, so poised yet free— 

I see you in a throne room, sweet with flowers, 

Before you ever were a little tree! 


[27] 




Your Book and Mind 


DAGUERREOTYPE 

Her skirts of muslin, stiffly starched, 

Were spread by careful hands, just so— 
Her worried little brows are ached, 

Her lips are like a cupid’s bow 
Yet tremulous, as if afraid 

To smile or speak, her eyes are wide, 

Her hair is plaited in a braid 
Two inches broad, and ribbon-tied. 

She wears her eight years solemnly, 

This little girl of yesterday— 

And yet her sweetness touches me, 

Though half a century away. 

Her satin sash, her tasseled shoes, 

Her fine ribbed stockings, white as milk; 
And I can almost see her choose, 

Her petticoat of china silk! 

Framed in a tarnished band of gilt, 

She sits all day, her small hands hold 
A flower that will never wilt— 

Dear little girl, so young, so old! 

Her skirts of muslin, wrinkleless, 

Were spread by careful hands, just so— 
Her thoughts my mind can never guess, 

Pier lips are like a cupid’s bow\ 


[28] 




There's Nothing So Sweet 


THERE’S NOTHING SO SWEET 

There’s nothing so sweet as a baby’s mouth, 
And a baby’s dimpled hand, 

There’s nothing so dear as a baby’s tear 
When a smile comes creeping after— 
There’s nothing so blue as a baby’s eyes, 

For they hold the light of the soul’s sun-rise, 
And there’s nothing so gay, in all the land, 
As a baby’s first, shy laughter! 


[29] 




Your Book and Mine 


A BOOK OF VERSES 

The book is such a joyous thing, I think that it was made 
In some high-raftered, happy room where little sunbeams 
played; 

I think that breezes blew about, and flowers in a vase 
Glanced up, with winsome blossom smiles, into the poet’s 
face. 

The book holds not a thought of pain or bitterness or 
dread, 

The verses are as light as foam, they seem to skip ahead 
From page to page, half laughingly, as tiny children play— 
And yet they take the reader to a land of far away. 

A very pleasant land it is, where every worker sings, 
Where sea-gulls skim along the shore on broad extended 
wings— 

Where forests are a drowsy green, and fields a golden 
brown, 

Where white church spires reach to God from every 
peaceful town. 

The book is not a masterpiece—its life may not be long, 
It is a breath of mignonette, a gentle sigh, a song— 

The theme of it is not sublime, yet somehow it imparts, 
A bit of gladness that will grow in many weary hearts. 


[30] 




A Book of Verses 


I wonder if the poet knows how much his songs have 
meant, 

Because they tell of simple things, of good cheer and 
content; 

Because they bring the light of dreams to lonely souls, 
and sad? 

I hope he knows—and, oh, I hope the knowledge makes 
him glad! 


[31] 




Your Book and Mine 


IN A SHOP WINDOW 

He was such a tiny puppy, in the window of a shop, 

And his wistful eyes looked at you, and they begged you 
please to stop 

And buy him—for a window’s awful lonesome, and folk 
pass. 

And they make strange, ugly faces and rap sharply on the 
glass. 

He was such a little beggar, and his paws were soft and 
wide, 

And he had a way of standing with his head held on one 
side, 

And his mouth just slightly open, and he almost seemed 
to cry 

“Take me from this horrid window, ’cause I’m ready, 
’most, to die!’’ 

He put real knots in your heart strings, made you want 
to break away 

From the lease you signed so proudly—was it only yester¬ 
day? 

Said that dogs were not admitted ... he was not a dog, 
not yet 

Only just a tiny puppy, and his nose was black and wet! 

Did you ever think unkindly of a friend you held quite 
dear, 

Did you ever speak out crossly, so that by-standers could 
hear, 

Did you ever pull a curtain to shut out the laughing day? 

That s how you felt but more so—as you turned and 
walked away! 


[32] 




From a Second-Hand Store 


From a Second-Hand Store 

There’s an old shop that I visit often, when I’m in a 
mood to be pleased or entertained or interested. It’s a 
dingy old shop on a dingy old street—one that has stood 
for many years, and without change,- on the same spot. 
The glass in the broad window of it is blurred, more by 
age than by the dust that clings so tightly—the counters 
and show-cases are worn with the print of the hands, 
with the utter weariness of the elbows that have pressed 
down upon them. It even seems that the doorsill has 
responded, tiredly, to the sound of the feet that have 
crossed it. 

The shop is a second-hand shop—it makes no pretence 
to anything better. All of the goods displayed in it are 
second-hand—all of its fixtures are second-hand. Even 
the proprietor—a white-bearded old man who wears 
a shiny black scull-cap—seems second-hand. And his one 
clerk—a shade younger, perhaps, but none the less ancient 
in appearance—seems second-hand, too ! 

It is mostly jewelry they sell in this shop, jewelry and 
quite a bit of old silver plate. The jewelry dates back, 
often, a good many generations—often it recalls the time 
of the Civil War. It makes one see, in a vision, the hooped 
skirts of the early sixties; it makes one think of violin 
music and the sweetness of honey-suckle, sometimes. 

When the old proprietor is in a friendly mood—and he 
usually is in a friendly mood—he can make an hour or 
two pass very charmingly. He has a way of delving into 
old cupboards, of pulling out dusty drawers full of the dull 

[33] 





Your Book and Mink 


glitter of gold and the subdued shine of unpolished silver. 
He has a way of bringing out quaint rings and brooches, 
he has a way of telling a story about this locket, or that 
bracelet! 

“This,” he’ll say, “was give to a young woman by her 
lover, long ago. She was a great belle, she was—almost 
a reigning beauty, you might say. Her lover give her this 
for a birthday gift and they say as she treasured it more 
than any of her other pretties. She wore it when she went 
to Lincoln’s first reception in the White House. An’, later, 
to her own weddin’. She’d have wore it to her grave, 
poor lady—” And then he has a way of sighing, and break¬ 
ing off, very abruptly. 

“But,” I will remonstrate at a time like this, “but what 
happened to her? And how did you come by her jewelry? 
Did she die in great poverty? Or did she lose her most 
valued possessions ? Or were they stolen ? How did you 
get them ?” 

The old man sighs again, way down in his chest, when 
I ask my questions. And then, hastily, he reaches for a 
different trinket and begins to weave a different story about 
it. And, at the critical time, he breaks off again and leaves 
me burning with curiosity and wondering—incidentally— 
whether he has a secret to keep or an extremely vivid 
imagination. I’m inclined to believe it’s imagination—but 
every once in a while I think that there’s a strain of real 
fact back of the make-believe. All of his stories—every 
one of his incidents —might have happened! 

Yes, the proprietor of the shop may, at times, draw 
upon a secret fund of romance to explain the odd—and 
sometimes very beautiful—objects that he has for sale. 
But whether his stories are true or not, one thing is certain. 

[34] 





• From a Second-Hand Store 


And that is his keen appreciation of the loveliness of his 
wares, the real joy that he takes in handling his treasures! 
He is quite different from the men who work amid the 
glittering wealth of modern jewelry stores—his stock is 
not treated casually, and as a matter of dollars and cents. 
The second-hand finery that he disposes of seems to hold 
a very real personality for him. And a decided, extremely 
poignant, charm. 

“I’d rather work among second-hand things,” he told 
me once, “than with the costliest jewels on the market. I 
don’t envy folks that own big places—they don’t get the 
pleasure that I do out of their work! Second-hand things 
have character! There are stories back of ’em. Some¬ 
times you can almost know what the folks was like that 
they belonged to. Sometimes it’s like talking with those 
folks, just to hold the things they was fond of! 

“There’s lots of people in the world who don’t take no 
stock in things that ain’t new. I’ve seen folks turn up 
their nose at my shop, so I have! ‘Don’t you carry any 
new goods?’ they’ll ask. And, ‘We don’t want a lot of 
old junk!’ they’ll tell me. But they can’t hurt my feel¬ 
ings. For I know that they’re just the sort of folks that 
don’t—that can’t—understand ! 

“New things are good—don’t misunderstand me. But 
second-hand things aren’t worthless just because they’ve 
been used. Sometimes they’re better—more seasoned, sort 
of—on account of the using!” 

Second-hand things—yes, they’re often as good, and 
many times they’re far better, than new things. Just be¬ 
cause they’re second-hand they shouldn’t be discarded. 
Just because they’re second-hand they shouldn’t be laid 
upon the shelf! 


[35] 




Your Book and Mine 


Mothers, for instance, and fathers, and grandparents. 
They don’t belong to the younger generation, perhaps, but 
they have the joys of the younger generation at heart. 
They can understand and appreciate the happiness and the 
misery of youth all the more keenly because they have gone 
past youth. It always hurts to see them pushed aside—it’s 
real physical pain to see them being ignored and left out. 
Remember that! 

There was a time when fine old mahogany was piled 
away in the wood-shed, and imitation oak furniture was 
given the place of honor in the parlor—because it was 
new! But after the newness had worn off the oak, furni¬ 
ture folk would see that it wasn’t worth much—and that 
the old mahogany in the wood-shed was still good and 
beautiful. All it needed was a little polishing—a wee bit 
of attention to bring out its loveliness. And yet—after all 
—it was second-hand! 

Jewelry that has been worn is just as graceful—just as 
much of a decoration, as new jewelry. And often it has 
more distinction. . . Old, lustrous furniture will outlast 
all your modern morris chairs and mission wood—don’t, if 
you have any, part with a stick of it! 

And the older people—bless them—the parents and 
the grandparents have the wearing qualities of the ma¬ 
hogany furniture and the fine second-hand jewelry. Don’t, 
because they’re older, put them in the background! Every 
year that brings age also brings an added value! 


[36] 




Spanish Fan 


SPANISH FAN 

The mystery of olden Spain 
Is hid behind the lace of you, 

Eyes that have vanquished din Madrid, 
Have smiled above the face of you. 

So wide you are, with painted knots 
Of roses, such as never grew, 

And, oh, your perfumed witchery, 

So old, and yet so ever new! 

Transparencies that veil and hide 
An elfin, fragrant, tender mirth, 

As eerie as the crescent moon, 

That hangs above a slender earth. 

A garden spot, a song, a kiss, 
Forgotten, fragile ecstasy; 

A dagger sheathed in shining silk, 

A dove that struggles to be free . . . 

The romance of another world, 

Is hid behind the face of you; 

Emotions just as gossamer, 

As the fine textured lace of vou! 

✓ 


[3?] 




Your Book and Mine: 


WHEN YOU ARE SILENT 

Sometimes, when you sit silently in the gloaming, 

When laughter has died from your lips, and your eyes 
are sad; 

When, through the dusk, the soul of you goes a-roaming, 
I think of you as a wistful little lad. 

Not as a man who can set my heart to singing, 

Not as a lover, to make my pulses beat— 

But as a child, with fears that he is bringing, 

Swift to the one who can make his pathway sweet! 

Often I long to touch, with my tender fingers, 

A lock of hair that is ruffled upon your head; 

And I forget that a thread of silver lingers, 

Telling, poignantly, of the years long dead! 

All of the mother in me is awake, and speaking, 

But there is scarcely a word that I can say; 

Dear little boy of my heart, what are you seeking — 

Why do you wander so far, so far away f 


[38] 






Cupid Weather 


CUPID WEATHER 

Silver hearts and gold hearts and crimson hearts together. 
Whole hearts and broken hearts—for this is Cupid 
weather! 

Roses in a little wreath, forget-me-nots of blue, 

Silver hearts and gold hearts, and all of them for you! 

Tiny girls with noses pressed against the window pane, 
Waiting for the postman to make his rounds again; 

Big girls with wistful eyes, and lips of eager red, 
Thinking all the wonder words that Valentines have said! 

Little boys with envelopes held tight in chubby fists, 

Old folk, looking back, through tear entangled mists; 
Young folk standing hand in hand, youth and love together, 
Hearts that sing a new-old song— for this is Cupid 
weather! 

Valentines, valentines—flowers laid away, 

Breathing, with their fragrant dust, the dreams of yes¬ 
terday ; 

Purple dreams, and pink dreams, and dreams of faded 
brown, 

Dreams of twilit country lanes, and other dreams of 
town . . . 

Singing birds and sighing winds and words left half 
unsaid, 

Take the love that comes today—today will soon be dead! 
Valentines, valentines—sweet as April rain, 

Spread across a tired world to hide away its pain. 

[39] 




Your Book and Mink 


Silver hearts and gold hearts, all entwined together, 

Whole hearts and broken hearts—for this is Cupid 
weather! 

Misty sprays of mignonette, roses mixed with rue, 

Silver hearts and gold hearts, and all of them for you! 



[40] 




An Old Silhoulttl 


AN OLD SILHOUETTE 

A slip of sombre paper fashioned primly 
Into the semblance of a young girl's face; 

Set on a neck that rises strongly, slimly 
From out a quaintly fluted frill of lace, 

Long lashes, sweeping down in wistful fashion, 

A short, straight nose, and lips that almost smile; 
An echo of youth’s pride, and hope, and passion, 
And of youth’s joy that stays so short a while! 

A slip of paper—just a veiled suggestion, 

Of all that might have been so long, ago; 

A fragile shell, a softly whispered question, 

An answer that our hearts may never know . . . 
A hint of laughter, sweet as springtime rain, 

A shadow, reaching over years of pain! 


[41] 




Your Book and Mine 


Reaching Toward the Sun 

We New Yorkers seldom have gardens—unless we have 
a great deal of money. For it takes a great deal of money, 
in this crowded city, to own even the tiniest bit of a grass 
plot. But we love gardens, most of us, and that is why 
we like to imagine that we have plenty of free, open space 
for sun dials and hollyhocks and rose bushes and pansy 
beds—why we like to imagine wonderful things, and why 
we end by having a wee box of geraniums or a pot of 
jonquils on our widest window-sill. 

My garden this spring was a very simple one. It was 
also small—as small, almost, as a garden can be. But it 
was exceedingly beautiful, for all that it was so small and 
so simple. I made it by planting a succession of white 
narcissus bulbs in low porcelain bowls; bulbs so brown 
and shriveled on the outside that it seemed hardly within 
the bounds of reason to believe that they bore, inside, a 
wealth of grace and perfume. 

I planted the narcissus bulbs in smooth white pebbles, 
and moistened them daily with fresh water. And then, 
to let the roots have a chance at getting strong and healthy, 
I set the low bowls in a dark place and left them there 
for nearly a week. And when the week was over I took 
them out of the dark place, which was a closet, and set 
them in the sunlight upon my widest window-sill. 

The roots had taken hold during that dark week. As 
I wiggled an experimental finger through the loose white 
pebbles I could feel the strong tug of them. But the 
small green shoots that had grown out of the shriveled 

[ 42 ] 





Reaching Toward the Sun 


brownness of the bulbs were slender, fragile things with 
nothing vivid in their coloring. They looked almost trans¬ 
parent, almost anaemic, when I first placed them in the 
sunlight. 

Narcissus bulbs grow quickly. In almost three weeks 
from the time of planting, they bear flowers. They grow 
with such miraculous speed that it is an adventure to 
watch their daily progress. Every hour, it seems, they 
have gone onward and upward. And, from the time that 
they have their introduction to the sun, the color of their 
leaves becomes more vital, more alive. 

I watched over my narcissus bulbs with a joy that folk, 
who have many flowers, might not understand. I took 
a personal pride in every shoot; in every gallant bud. 
Only one thing troubled me about my garden, and that was 
the fact that my garden would not grow straight up! 
Every narcissus plant insisted upon curving out over my 
window-sill, toward the place from which the sunlight 
came. Every leaf, every bud, and later every blossom 
pointed first toward the street and then toward the sky. 

“They look almost curly,” I mourned, surveying them. 
“Why don’t they stand up, stiff and tall, like soldiers? 
Each shoot has two distinct bends in it.” 

A man-who-knows-more-about-flowers-than-I-do (does¬ 
n’t that sound like a long Indian name?) answered me. 

“Of course they have two distinct bends in them,” he 
told me in a mildly reproving tone; “they’re doing the 
only natural thing that they could do. If they grew up 
stiff and straight, as you want them to, they’d be going 
against all the fixed rules!” 

I will always ask a question. “Just why would they be 
going against the fixed rules?” I asked. “Just why?” 

[ 43 ] , 




Your Book and Mine 


The man—I won't add the rest of the long, Indian- 
sounding title—answered from the height of his superior 
knowledge. 

“You thought,” he told me, “when you put the bowls 
upon the window-sill, that they would have all the sun¬ 
light that they needed. You didn't realize that the window¬ 
sill from the apartment above threw a partial shade upon 
your window-sill. You didn’t realize—but the flowers did ! 
They knew, instinctively, that there was more sunlight 
to be had if they leaned a little farther out. And so 
they grew that way. Flowers will always grow toward 
the sun because they know that they need the sun. They’re 
unlike human beings who grow away from the things that 
are good for them—that they need!” 

Human beings are like that, sometimes. They do grow 
away from the things that they need. Not on purpose, 
often—not often to be contrary or foolish or obstinate. 
They grow away from the things they need—the things 
that will make them better—because they have never 
learned to reach instinctively, as the flowers reach, toward 
the Light. They grope along in the shadows, missing 
the purpose and the glory of things. They are sometimes 
afraid of bending their backs, sometimes afraid of grow¬ 
ing out of place—as my narcissus plants grew. Human 
beings, sometimes, seem unable to understand the laws of 
life—as the flowers understand them. 

When my flowers were getting their start—growing 
their firm roots—I put them in a dark, closet place. And 
there, away from the light, they gained their initial 
strength, but became pale, unpleasant, undernourished 
plants. If I had left them in the closet any longer they 
would have died for want of light. 





Reaching Toward the Sun 


But I did not leave them in the dark. I took them 
hurriedly, gladly, out of the shadows and placed them on 
my widest window-sill. And the sunlight fell upon them 
like a caress and a prayer. And they, mad with the delight 
of it, leaned out across the sill; out so far that their stalks 
were curiously bent. And by leaning out they were able 
to gain more light, brighter light. 

I took great joy in my flowers. And I learned a lesson 
from them, too. For I could not help comparing them 
with souls who are brought up in the shadows and who, 
finally, experience the love of God. As I saw their color 
brighten, as I saw them become more glorious and vivid, 
I remembered certain folk who had brightened and become 
more vivid because of the Light of His love. And as I 
watched the way that they grew, reaching always toward 
the sun, I could not help thinking of the ardent Christians 
that I know, who seem never to have enough of God’s 
brightness—who are always reaching out for more. 


[ 45 ] 





Your Book and Mine 


THE ROAD TO HAPPINESS 

The day was like a golden song, faint touched with white 
and blue, 

The sky was like a satin screen, with soft smiles peeping 
through; 

The wind among the wayside trees was very cool and 
sweet, 

And little daisies, like glad stars, bobbed up around my 
feet. 

The sunlight hung in folds about, and yellow butterflies 

Moved gently through a fragrant haze before my eager 
eyes; 

I picked a spray of buttercups and pinned them to my 
dress, 

And then I came upon the road—the road to happiness! 

It seemed a humble little road, quite dusty and quite brown, 

But grasses grew on either side, and when it crossed a 
town 

It fairly seemed to skip with joy—the road was glad, I 
know, 

Because of all the pleasant homes that stood there, row on 
row! 

It wound about, so easily, past church and hall and school_ 

It paused beside a tiny spring that bubbled, crystal cool, 

Out of a mossy forest spot; it drowsed beneath tall trees, 

And listened to the woodland sounds, and whispered to the 
breeze. 


[ 46 ] 




The Road to Happiness 


How do I know it was the road that leads to happy lands ? 
Because it brought me to the place where Love, with out¬ 
stretched hands, 

Stood waiting for me, and his smile was vivid as the day, 
And all the golden world grew still to hear what Love 
would say! 




Your Book and Mine: 


CHILD’S PRAYER 

I do not know just why the sun 
Has gone to rest, why day is done— 

I only know the shadows creep, 

And God willl watch me while I sleep. 

I do not know just why I say, 

The words that come to hearts that pray— 
I only know that close above 
My bed is God—and God is love. 

I do not know just why the night 
Is like a room without a light. 

I only know I do not fear— 

For God is near —for God is near! 


[ 48 ] 































































A drift of smoke against the far horizon, 

The evei" changing magic of the sea, 

The last glow of the sunset, as it dies on 
A quaint, old-fashioned garden’s mystery. 

A bird in flight, the sound of night winds, 
calling, 

Among the sleeping branches of dim trees, 
The silver rain of April, gently falling, 

Oh, inspiration has its birth in these! 


Home 


HOME 

Never a hearth, perhaps, with its soft light falling 
Over the velvet depths of a cosy chair; 

Only an unknown trail and the sea’s far calling, 

And a keen mist clinging like diamond dust to my hair. 

Never a sound of church-bells chiming the hour, 

Over the settled calm of a village place; 

Only a perfect love in its rarest flower. . . 

That—and your face ! 

Never the ease of a damask covered table, 

Never the laughter of neighbors coming to tea, 

Only a climb, for as long as we are able, 

Only dim heights that our eyes alone can see. 

Never a book of verse in a garden corner, 

When a sun-dial catches the western sky’s warm shine, 

Only a prayer for the weak, and a laugh for the scorner— 
Those—and your hand in mine. 

Never an oaken door, when the dark comes creeping, 
Stoutly barred to shut out the furtive night— 

Only the stars to smile on our dreamless sleeping, 

And the bow of the moon to give us a silver light. 

Never the man-built laws to guard our resting, 

Keeping us safe from fancied wrongs or harms; 

Only the freedom of birds, when they are nesting; 

That—and your arms. 





Your Book and Mine 


Never a hearth, perhaps, with its soft light falling 
Over the velvet depths of a cosy chair. 

Only the voice of romance, ever calling, 

Only the rainbow’s end, and the treasure there! 

Never a shield as we fight through life’s stormy weather, 
Only the knowledge, as love and living slips, 

That we will win to a haven of rest, together — 

That—and your lips! 






Violets in Winter 


VIOLETS IN WINTER 

He was standing on the corner, 

In the flurry of the snow, 

Selling violets, purple violets, 

The wee, fragrant kind that grow 
In the meadow, when it’s April, 

And the ground is damp and sweet, 

And the leaves of last year crackle, 

Like a laugh beneath the feet. 

Oh, it almost seemed like magic, 

Just to see them by the way! 

Purple violets, purple violets, 

On a sorry winter day. 

Tired eyed the man who sold them, 
Wistful voiced and thinly dressed, 

But he held a dream of springtime, 

Tightly clasped against his breast. 

Whispered words, and threads of longing, 
How I heard them through the throng— 
Days of sunshine, half forgotten, 

Mingled with the sound of song. 

Purple violets, purple violets, 

Gleaming bravely through the snow— 
Dreams for sale, frail dreams of springtime! 
(Did the man who sold them know?) 


[ 55 ] 




Your Book and Mine 


VALENTINE 

A frill of lacy paper—time yellowed, torn with age— 
A knot of faded roses, made dusty by the years, 

A verse in fragile writing, a half-forgotten page 

Sill marked (a ghost-like marking!) with just a hint of 
tears. 

A valentine ... I wonder who wrote it long ago, 
I wonder whose slim fingers have touched it silently? 
And who—those ghost-like tear drops!—has wept above it 
so, 

And who has kissed it softly, when no one else might 
see? 

The ashes of a heart-beat, the phantom of a sigh, 

The murmur of a waltz tune, the flutter of a prayer— 
A handful of remembrance, of days that have passed by, 
The laughter and the love words of folk who are not 
there! 

I found it in an old chest, dim fragments laid aside, 
The frill of lacy paper, the roses and the lines; 

They speak to me, a stranger, of love that never died, 
They bring to me the message of all life’s valentines. 

Time yellowed— ah, youth passes and passion goes until 
youth — 

Torn by the touch of fingers, marked with the damp of 
tears, 

A verse in fragile writing —but love is strong as truth — 
A dusty little token—a kiss across the years! 

[ 56 ] 




Blue Curtains in a Window 


Blue Curtains in a Window 

l 

There’s a window, in the house that stands directly 
opposite my apartment, that is hung with curtains of 
a soft blue color. It’s a long, narrow, rather old-fash¬ 
ioned window of the French type, with the gleam of 
fresh white paint around the casing and a dark sill 
that, seen dimly through the glass, might be ma¬ 
hogany. 

During the winter time, when it is very cold and 
nearly all well-behaved windows are tight-closed, the 
blue curtains hang with a calm severity of line on 
either side of the pane. Sometimes, from my apart¬ 
ment, I can see a flicker of warm lamp-light shining 
between the folds of them—sometimes I can see the 
ruddy glow of a fire. But when spring comes—when 
radiant summer is on the way, and nearly all well- 
behaved windows are left wide open—the blue curtains 
blow about gaily whenever there is the smallest sug¬ 
gestion of a breeze. 

I have never seen any person—any real person— 
standing in the window. But I have imagined many 
folk—gracious white-haired men and women,, and 
young smiling mothers, and wee youngsters with 
straight hair cut in bangs across their foreheads. I 
have imagined the sort of a family that ought to be¬ 
long to such a pleasant window—I cannot help feel¬ 
ing that only a very lovely person would have chosen 
curtains of such a wonderful color. I am sure, as I 
watch them blowing in the breeze, that they shelter 

[57] 







Your Book and Mine 


happiness—only happiness, and nothing else—from 
the curious gaze of the passers-by. And often I find 
the happiness of the home that I cannot see, the home 
that is hidden from my eyes, reflected in my own heart. 

There are other windows on the same block that are 
not curtained in blue. Indeed, there are some windows 
that are not curtained at all! Some windows have 
dingy sills that could never, by any stretch of imagina¬ 
tion, resemble mahogany. And some of the casings 
look as though white paint were an unheard-of luxury. 
Some of them are quite frankly dirty—some of them 
seem only unduly careless. 

It is hard to imagine that pleasant dream people live 
back of the dingy, uncurtained windows. There is 
nothing exciting about them, nothing that thrills the 
imagination. They are only windows—and most of 
them need washing. They utterly lack the romance 
of the blue-curtained one. 

When I glance up at these other windows, in pass¬ 
ing, I am very apt to see half-filled milk bottles bal¬ 
anced precariously upon the sill, or a rumpled bag of 
fruit, or a saucer of left-over pudding. And as I go 
past, hurriedly, I am very apt to imagine that I can 
hear voices raised in anger, and over-loud laughter, 
coming from the rooms in back of them. 

As a matter of fact, I am probably wrong. The 
people who live in the uncurtained rooms are doubt¬ 
less just as charming, just as worth knowing as the 
people who live back of the blue curtains. But one 
would never guess it from the exterior. And when 
one only sees the exterior there is no other way of 
guessing! 


[58] 




Bujs Curtains in a Window 


I have worked with many people, during the years 
that I have spent in coming to an office. And some 
of them have been as attractive to look at as the win¬ 
dow with the blue curtains, and some of them have 
been as unpleasing as the other windows—the ones 
that have no curtains. And I have noticed that the 
people who are neat and charming and interesting get 
ahead faster than the people who are a bit untidy and 
careless. 

“I hired my secretary,” I once heard a successful 
business man say, “because she was wearing such 
immaculate collar and cuffs when she called to ask 
for a position. She looked as if she was exceedingly 
particular about her personal appearance—as’ if the 
little things were as important to her as the big 
things. I couldn’t help feeling that she would keep 
my work up to the mark; I couldn’t help feeling that 
my desk and my filing cabinet would be as neat, al¬ 
ways, as her collar and cuffs. And so I hired her!” 

It’s curious to think of hiring a girl for a responsible 
position because of her collar and cuffs. But that sort 
of thing is done over and over again, I fancy, in the 
business world. 

“First of all,” said a woman who is personnel man¬ 
ager of a great factory, “I look into a girl’s eyes. And 
then I glance quickly at her clothing. And if she 
meets my eyes and her clothing is neat, I hire her. 
Lots of shabby girls come to me, and I give work to 
them! Shabbiness and lack of style don’t mean a 
thing in my life. All that I demand is that a girl be as 
clean as possible, that she make the most of herself!” 

[59] 







Your Book and Mink 


Yes, lots of people—men as well as girls—are hired 
because they have been clever enough to realize that 
blue curtains go a great way toward making attractive 
the window of life. A great many people get on, not 
only in business but in their social and home lives 
because they instinctively know the value of a pleasing 
exterior. And a great many people go through the 
world with really sterling qualities unrecognized be¬ 
cause they hide those qualities behind something that 
is dingy. 

I fancy that it wasn’t a great task to make the blue 
curtains that hang in the window directly opposite my 
apartment. I fancy that a bit of hemming and a bit 
of pinning up don’t take many minutes. And yet the 
effect is worth ever so much, for it creates an at¬ 
mosphere of happiness and peace and—more than that 
—of real caste. 

I imagine that it didn’t take a great deal of time, 
either, for a certain girl to launder the white collar 
and cuff set that won her a very fine position. But 
that collar and cuff set suggested, at once, a standard 
of quality. 

Oftentimes, when the sky is blue and glowing, I 
find myself wondering what lies behind the blue of it 
—wondering what the Home beyond the sky is like. 
I can’t help feeling that it must be a very marvelous 
place; it couldn’t be anything but wonderful because 
of the curtains that hang, so gloriously, between it and 
the world! It’s a continuous lesson to us, who have 
earth windows that should be kept neat, always, and 
beautiful! 


[ 60 ] 





Pussy Wiuuows 


PUSSY WILLOWS 

Like smiles from every window, 

Of every florist’s shop 
Like gentle little gestures, 

That plead with folk to stop. 

Glad as the breeze of springtime, 

In coats of silken gray, 

The pussy willows beckon, 

Across the crowded day. 

They mark the joyous season, 

Of love-time and of youth— 

They flaunt the gallant spirit 
Of faith renewed, and truth. 

So small, and yet so sturdy, 

Demure, yet strangely free— 

The romance of a flower, 

The straight strength of a tree! 

Like laughter in dim places, 

Like hope in tired eyes, 

They bring, just after winter, 

A thrill of glad surprise. 

As cuddley as something 

Alive and warm and sweet— 

They creep, the springtime’s vanguard, 
Through avenue and street! 


[61] 




Your Book and Mine 


PARK TREES 

The trees that live in forests are like soldiers, for they 
stand 

In solid, firm battalions set to guard a well-loved land; 

The trees in little villages are prim and slim and neat, 

As they gaze in drowsy silence down the candor of each 
street. 

The trees that stand by rivers are a slender romance book, 

They bend to their reflections with an archly smiling look; 

The trees that dwell in gardens are like mothers, for they 
grow 

With their gentle branches shading little plants that bloom 
below. 

There are trees that grow in meadows, and beside dim, 
winding lanes, 

There are trees that break the loneliness of dusty, rolling 
plains; 

There are fruitful trees in orchards—trees are welcome 
everywhere— 

But the trees that grow in cities are the answer to a 
prayer! 

In the little parks their shadows are a-dance upon the grass, 

And they whisper tiny secrets to the winds that flutter 
past, 

They tell about the country to the children of the slums— 

They murmur through the springtime and they laugh when 
summer comes! 


[62] 




Park Tr££s 


Just a tender bit of beauty, just a winsome touch of green, 

Where so little of the beauty of God’s out-of-doors is 
seen— 

Just a word from highest Heaven that the world is fresh 
and fair— 

Oh, the trees that grow in cities are a promise, and a 
prayer! 


v 


[63] 




Your Book and Mine 


A SLUM STREET 

A woman with a ragged shawl tied underneath her chin, 

A bearded man with wistful eyes and weary, dragging 
feet; 

A pallid child whose twitching hands are small and blue 
and thin, 

And, like a mist about them all, the sighing of the street. 

A sweatshop girl—her shoes are new, her hat a fluff of 
lace— 

A boy who steals an apple from a push cart by the way, 

A cripple wrapped in blankets, with a wizened, world- 
old face; 

And, where the gutter clogs with mud, two little tots at 
play. 

An organ man with broken tunes, he mumbles as he goes, 

A long-haired student with a book, who hurries for a 
car; 

A woman in a doorway—in her hands a faded rose, 

That came to her, perhaps, from some far place where 
gardens are! 

A furtive youth with sullen eyes and brown-stained finger 
tips, 

A woman with a raven wig upon her silvered head; 

A mother with her baby’s hand pressed tight against her 
lips. . . . 

And all about them silent dreams, and hopes that long 
are dead. 




A Slum Street 


Tall rows of houses, chasm-like, that shut away the sun— 
Loud traffic roars that almost drown the sound of tramp¬ 
ing feet, 

The heavy damp of twilight when the fevered day is done; 
And, over all, the pathos and the passion of the street. 




Your Book and Mink 


WINDOW BOX 

Across the street from me I glimpse 
The glow of it. It is as gay 

As little songs that children sing— 

It calls to me through all the day. 

The scarlet buds, the trailing vines, 

The drowsy-red, half opened flowers, 

Are like soft hands to help me through, 

The loneliness of tired hours. 

I wonder at the folk who tend 
The window box. . . . Perhaps they know 

That it is like a friendly voice, 

To many passers-by, below. 

Perhaps they know that people pause, 

To gaze at it with lifted eyes; 

And dream, awhile, of lovely things, 

Of peace and hope and country skies. 

The window box across the street— 

The sight of it is always new! 

It nestles close upon my heart, 

As little acts of kindness do. 

Sometimes my soul is filled with cheer, 

Reflected from across the way— 

Sometimes my lips are curved with smiles, 
Because the colors are so gay. . . 


[ 66 ] 




Country Road 


COUNTRY ROAD 

The road is still as my heart is still, 

It steals through the hollow and over the hill— 
Steals o’er the hill and over the hollow, 
Murmuring ever, “Come follow—follow!” 

The road is narrow—it is not straight, 
Shadows creep over it early and late; 

Early and late do the shadows, creeping, 

Ease my soul to a peaceful sleeping! 

The sumac flames with a scarlet flame, 

The soft wind whispers a well-loved name; 
The woodbine quivers with crimson fire, 

And wakes my eyes to a brave desire! 

Youth may die . . . But the road still calls, 

To the place where the last pale sunlight falls— 
Murmuring ever, with turn and bend, 

“Follow me on to the end—the end!” 


[ 67 ] 




Your Book and Mine: 


When You Climb the Hill 

I dreamed a curious dream one night, a long time 
ago. And the memory of it has stayed with me through 
the years. It’s stayed with me so strongly that once 
I wrote a poem about it—and once I used it as the 
background for a story. And to-day, because of Mary 
Harris—of whom I will say more, later—it came back 
to me again. 

The dream, as I said, was a strange one. But it was 
a simple one, as to construction. It seemed that I was 
climbing up a steep hill—a long, dusty, tiresome hill. 
And it seemed that upon the sides of the hill—away 
from the dust and dirt—there bloomed green little 
gardens and sweet, cool stretches of lawn. And it 
seemed that pleasant people called to me from those 
garden spots, saying: 

“Wait a bit—wait! You’re going by all the good 
things of life! You’re missing the flowers and the 
sunshine and the love. You’re letting your youth 
slip away.” 

I heard them calling, in my dream. But I didn’t 
answer. For they seemed hardly important enough 
to answer. Only I kept saying to myself: 

“They’re silly, asking me to stop. They should 
realize that I must hurry to the top of the hill. That 
I must hurry!” 

The way grew rougher, as I climbed. I could feel 
the heat of the sun on my uncovered head, and I could 
feel the bite of sharp stones through my slippers. 

[68] 




When You Cumb the Hill 


There were ledges of rock to be crawled over, and deep 
ruts in the path. But still I kept on. And as I went 
up and up the green garden places began to grow 
smaller and the smooth bits of lawn fell sharply away. 
And the voices of the calling people became only 
murmurs in the distance. 

I toiled on. And then, suddenly, I began to grow 
weary. And all at once I thought, with keen longing, 
of the garden spots that I had passed. 

“It would have been nice,” I told myself, “to have 
lingered with the pleasant people down below. But—” 
I added, “I’m almost at the top. And when I’ve reached 
the top I’ll have nothing more to do, for the rest of 
my life, but enjoy gardens! I can always go back to 
the place I’ve passed.” 

So I said, in my dream. And, because of my phil¬ 
osophy, I gritted my teeth and struggled on, up the 
hill that was now almost unbearably steep. I could 
feel blisters on my heels, and my head ached, and my 
tired back was a torment. But I struggled on—and on. 
And at last I reached the brow of the hill—a gaunt 
barren spot. 

I was tired, so tired, when I reached my destination 
that I sank down upon the ground. I was too ex¬ 
hausted to feel even a slight degree of triumph. But 
at last I raised my head wearily and looked about. 

Yes, I was at the summit—I had reached the heights 
that I had toiled for. But everything seemed drab 
and colorless and shrunken—on the heights. And all 
at once I wanted the gardens that I had passed so 
carelessly. And I glanced eagerly down the hillside. 

[69] 




Your Book and Mine: 


But all that I could see was the hard road, winding 
dustily into the distance. For the garden spots had 
disappeared—as though some gigantic hand had 
erased them. 

All alone on the summit of the hill I sat. And the 
sky was dark above me, and I was worn out, and there 
were no gardens to go back to. 

And suddenly, I waked from my dream. And my 
cheeks were wet with tears. 

When Mary Harris called on me recently, I noticed 
the great change in her. When I first met her, many 
years ago, I had been a child and she had been a young 
and radiant woman. And somehow, ever since our 
initial meeting, I had connected her very name with 
thoughts of youth and radiance. So the change in her 
came as a real shock to me. 

She was faded, and dull, and gray. She was un¬ 
deniably old, although she was only a little past forty. 
And her whole manner was disinterested, listless. 

We talked, for awhile, of the commonplaces. She 
had been the friend of older members of my family— 
we mentioned them. And then, as conversation 
drifts, we swung around to her work (for she is a very 
successful business woman) and to mine: 

“You’ve gone ahead so fast, Miss Harris,” I ven¬ 
tured. “You’ve reached the big things sooner than 
most people.” 

Mary Harris laughed, a hard little laugh. 

“Yes,” she said. “I’ve reached the big things—at 
forty-one. But I almost wish that I hadn’t gotten to 

the top so soon. Don’t-” suddenly her voice was 

intense, passionate, “don’t make my mistake!” 

[70] 





When You Ceimb the Hiee 


I, somehow, did not want to ask questions. But 
my curiosity got the better of my delicacy. 

“What mistakes have you made?” I asked. 

And Mary Harris told me. 

It was a commonplace story that she told me, 
rather. And the dull tone of her voice made it even 
more commonplace. There were no high spots in the 
narrative, no moments of climax. 

As a girl she had been absorbed with the idea of 
carving out a future, a career, for herself. She had 
been obsessed with the thought of doing something 
worth while, something big. She had talked of it, 
dreamed of it, prayed about it. And at last a business 
opportunity, with possibilities, had presented itself. 

She had seized the opportunity. And she had 
thrown herself into the work. She had given up her 
play times, her moments of recreation, her friends. 
She had made the business her master—she had be¬ 
come a slave to it. 

It is not strange that she made good. You see, she 
was putting her very life into it. Amazingly she 
forged ahead, from one position to another, until she 
had reached an executive office with her name, in gold 
leaf, upon the door. And then, for the first time, she 
felt that she could rest. 

There had ‘been times, during her progress up the 
hill of business, when she had almost hesitated. Mary 
Harris told me, in her monotonous voice, of a man 
who had wanted to marry her; and she had loved him- 
There had been a home in the country that she had 
contemplated buying. There had been a certain course 

[71] 






Your Book and Mine: 


of study that she had pondered on, and a trip to 
Europe, and a chance to do good in the crowded slums. 
But they would have interfered with her progress. 

“They would have held me back,” said Mary Har¬ 
ris, “and I didn’t want to be held back. So I gave 

them up. But now-” her voice broke, “now that 

I’ve time the opportunities are gone. The man mar¬ 
ried another girl. And some one else is living in the 
house. And I’m too old to go to college; I’d be miser¬ 
able in a class with just young women! And I can’t 
interest the slum kiddies—all I know is business , and 
they don’t care for business! Oh,” she was almost 
sobbing, “don’t try to get ahead so fast that you’ll 
miss all the joy of life!” 

In my dream the garden places and the pleasant 
people had disappeared. In the life of Mary Harris— 
and in many another life—the garden places disappear 
just as suddenly, completely! 

Of course every one wants to be a success. Every¬ 
one wants to climb to the top of the hill! But the wise 
climber will pause in climbing—will take time to enjoy 
the garden places; to see God’s flowers, and God’s 
green grass—and to know the love that God has put 
on earth for us. 

The wise climber will get to the top of the hill, 
eventually. And he’ll have a real joy of achievement 
when he gets there. 

For there will be warm memories in his heart of 
garden spots, and youth, and an unwasted springtime! 


[ TO ] 





Enchantment 


ENCHANTMENT 

A tangled garden where a sundial stands, 

Amid the perfumed dust of fading flowers; 

A dim old setting for this love of ours . . . 

I hear far voices when you touch my hands, 

And when you stoop to kiss my tumbled hair, 

I hear a sighing in among the trees, 

And, though it may be just the evening breeze, 

I almost see somebody standing there! 

I almost see the glimmering of white 

And filmy garments, where slim branches meet; 
I almost hear the stealthy tread of feet— 

I touch your arm, for it is nearly night, 

And I am frightened in this silent place, 

Where ivy twines and subtle mignonette, 

Grows in great clusters, where the grass is wet 
And the pale moon half fears to show her face. 

Forgotten roses, left to bloom alone, 

And clematis, turned to a plaintive ghost, 

And unnamed blossoms, a wild-growing host, 
That clamber over bench and mossy stone. 

A fountain that no longer sends a spray, 

Of water to the stars, so dim above ; 

A garden that has played at life and love, 

And lives, now, in a dream of yesterday. 


[«] 





Your Book and Mink 


I wonder if the sundial ever smiled 

Beneath the blue of clear, untroubled skies ? 
And if the fountain pool reflected eyes, 
The carefree eyes of some glad, laughing child? 
I wonder if the garden ever knew, 

When it was very green and fresh and fair, 
The splendor of a romance, living there— 
The young-old song that my heart sings to you? 


[74] 




A Guest Room 


A GUEST ROOM 

The room is such a quiet place, 

The high old bed, the easy chair; 

One almost feels a presence there, 
One almost sees a smiling face . . . 

The windows, hung with frilly lace, 
Look out upon a garden fair, 

That someone tends with loving care, 
There is a subtle, friendly grace, 

That almost seems to speak, to tell 
One entering the room, that peace 
Dwells in the place, with swift release 
From worry. And that all is well 
That one who enters in will find 
A welcome that is warm and kind! 


[75] 




Your Book and Mine: 


THE WANDERER 

Oh, I have sailed the seven seas, 

And I have traveled far, 

Into the unknown places where 
The great adventures are! 

I have seen dawn, a scarlet flag. 

From mountain peaks unfurled, 

And I have felt the hunger of 
The lonely, groping world. 

Oh, I have known the urge of roads, 
That lured my vagrant feet, 

And I have blessed the sudden rest 
That wanderers find sweet. 

My eyes have searched a tropic vale, 
To glimpse a passion flower— 

And I have felt the jungle’s heart 
Throb at the twilight hour. 

Oh, I have forded streams that swept, 
White crested through the night; 
And I have followed frozen trails 
Blazed by the north star’s light. 

I have passed dangers, unafraid, 

And I have met with pain, 

And smiled into the eyes of Hope, 
And ventured forth again! 


[76] 




The: Wander 


The city roars about my soul, 

The city binds my hands . . . 

But in my heart brave journeys start, 
To vivid, unguessed lands. 

Oh, I have sailed the seven seas, 

And I have traveled far, 

Into the wonder places where 
The dreams of romance are! 




Your Book and Mink 


HAUNTED HOUSE 

The drifting twilight gathers like a dream 

About the little house, its walls of white 
Gleam faintly silver through the coming night— 

And, standing all alone, I almost seem 
To see vague shadow shapes flit to and fro, 

Past lightless window and through empty door, 

I seem to hear soft steps upon the floor, 

And wistful whisperings that come and go. 

The tangled garden stands a bit apart, 

And watches with me . . . Brave with fragrant 

flowers 

It tries to smile across the lonely hours, 

And yet I think it hides a broken heart. 

Once, I am sure there was a sound of laughter, 

In that small house; once children on the stair 
Called to each other—and, perhaps, a pair 
Of lovers met upon the porch, and after 
The moon came up, a silver bow of glory, 

It shone upon a wee home filled with calm, 

A cottage with a quiet, happy charm, 

In which kind lives lived out a gentle story. 

The garden, all neglected, feels the lack, 

Of romance and of tender, joy-filled hours, 

And, in and out among the waiting flowers, 

Steal ghosts of days that never will come back. 

[78] 




Horizon 


HORIZON 

So fragile is the line of it, so threadlike, 

Against the rising splendor of the day; 

And yet it beckons like slim, luring fingers, 

And whispers of the land of far away! 

Oh, all the gold that lived in Spanish galleons, 

And all the pearls that lie beneath the strand. 

Are just beyond the line of it, as slender 

As a pale ribbon in a woman’s hand. . . . 

We crowd ambition into packs, we gird us 
In rainbow cloaks of valor and of pride, 

And answer to the call of it, each striving 
To reach that haven on the other side. 

And though the path be strewn with stones to stay us, 
And though the way be fraught with fear and pain, 

And though, sometimes, we leave our hearts behind us, 
And though, awhile, we pause for sudden gain— 

We never shut our souls against the calling, 

We never turn our pleading eyes away, 

From that faint thread of silver, ever gleaming 
Against the promise of the new-born day! 

Oh, all the gems that sleep in high flung mountains, 

And all the wealth with which the earth is lined , 

Are safe beyond that thread—for none have crossed it— 
With all the dreams the earth-bound never find! 

[79] 





Your Book and Mine 


BITTER-SWEET 

Challenging the eager eye, from every florist shop, 
Begging, with its red and gold, the passer-by to stop— 
Telling of the autumn days, that are so very dear, 
Humming such a cherry tune for tired hearts to hear! 

Bitter-sweet, the youth of you that lives across the years! 
Telling us that love will last, that faith can banish tears. 
Telling us that hope may tint the shadowings of pain, 
Telling us that, winter past, the spring will come again. 

Whispering to lonely souls a story ever new, 

Telling sad, discouraged folk that dreams may yet come 
true, 

Telling us of country lanes, where skies are all a-smile, 
Helping us to hold the charm of autumn for awhile. 

Tied in little formal knots with wire and with string, 
Daring, in the city’s haste, to laugh at us, and sing— 
Daring, with the winter near, to smile into the skies, 
Bringing, with a rainbow mist, the swift tears to our eyes. 

Bitter-sweet, the youth of you that lives across the years! 
Bitter-sweet, the truth of you, that joy lives after tears; 
Bitter-sweet, the voice of you, that conquers joy and pain, 
Bitter-sweet, the youth of you, that never comes again! 


S 


[80] 




Write: Cheerful Letters 


Write Cheerful Letters 

When I came into the office one day the little girl 
who works in the corner opposite to me was crying. 
She looked up as I opened the door and gave me a 
brave attempt at a smile. But, even as she smiled, I 
saw that her lips were quivering and that her eyes 
were misting over. 

“What’s the matter?” I asked quickly—rather too 
quickly. For it’s sometimes indelicate to inquire 
pointedly into the cause of another person’s grief. 

The little girl dabbled at her eyes with an absurd bit 
of a lace handkerchief before she answered. When she 
spoke, at last, her voice was very shaky. 

“I’ve just had a letter from my sister-in-law,” she 
told me, “my sister-in-law, the wife of my brother who 
—who died. It was—” her voice broke, “it was a ter¬ 
rible letter. Not,” hurriedly, “that my sister-in-law 
meant to write a terrible letter. She is only very sad 
and she doesn’t understand how such a letter makes 
me feel!” 

“You mean,” I questioned, “you mean that she 
writes disagreeable things to you?” 

The little girl brushed her handkerchief again across 
her eyes. 

“No, she doesn’t write disagreeable things,” she told 
me, “but she dwells so on our tragedy—on my brother’s 
death and the circumstances surrounding it. She’s 
told me a dozen times about his last day or two, and 
the last things that he said, and his funeral. Why,” 

[81] 





Your Book and Mink 


her voice was pitiful, “why doesn’t she tell me about 
the baby? Why doesn’t she tell me about the little 
pleasant things she is doing? Why doesn’t she tell 
me how she is knitting together, again, the broken 
threads of her life? Why doesn’t she try to write 
cheerfully?” 

There was nothing definite that I could say in an¬ 
swer. I murmured something about being brave, some¬ 
thing pitifully inadequate. And then I walked away, 
over to my desk. And I sat down—and all at once I 
began to write this article. 

I know a girl who is a member of a large and scat¬ 
tered family. She works alone in the city. And her 
days are linked together by the letters that her loved 
ones send to her. When she receives a happy letter 
she goes singing to her work; when they tell her, 
buoyantly, the small bits of good news she is brave 
enough to kill a dozen dragons. But when they write 
dolefully she goes about with sad eyes, and when they 
complain and worry, her mouth is inclined to droop. 
Her work doesn’t go so well on those days when the 
worried letters come—she is very ready, on those days, 
to cry, very ready to let trifles upset her. 

“Once,” she told me, “I received a letter from my 
youngest sister. She’s married and lives several states 
away from me. It was a terribly upsetting letter— 
I imagined all sorts of things when I read it. So, after 
an hour of deliberation, I asked my employer for leave 
of absence—without pay—and took the first train for 
her home. I felt that I couldn’t bear to have my little 
sister feeling so miserable. 

[82] 




Write Cheereue Letters 


“After a long, tiresome trip I arrived at the town in 
which she lived. Filled with a growing anxiety I took 
a taxi to her home, from the station. You can scarcely 
imagine my surprise when I walked in, unannounced, 
upon a merry tea party—with my sister laughingly 
presiding at the head of the table! Her husband was 
there—and his greatest trouble seemed to be the loss 
of a set of tennis that afternoon. And my sister’s 
children, charmingly gowned, were there too. I—I 
can’t tell you how their outrageous calm, how the 
placid way in which they greeted, me, made me feel. 
Of course, I was glad, terribly glad, that nothing was 
the matter with any of them. But I was exasperated, 
too. Perhaps you can understand why. 

“When I was alone finally with my sister I asked 
her point-blank why she had written such a gloomy 
letter to me. I will never forget her wide-eyed look of 
innocence as she answered: 

“ ‘Why, Helen,’ she said, ‘I didn’t think that my let¬ 
ter would disturb you! I was a little upset when I 
wrote it, over a dress that hung badly—my dressmaker 
isn’t at all careful. You mustn’t jump so at conclu¬ 
sions, Helen. It isn’t good for you!” 

“And so,” the girl laughed ruefully up into my sym¬ 
pathetic face, “and so I went back the next day, on 
another tiresome, dusty train to a desk full of unan¬ 
swered mail. I suppose I was silly to as m} sister 
said—jump to conclusions. But I can t help feeling 
that she wasn’t being exactly thoughtful when she 
wrote that letter!” 

Oh, friends of mine, try to write cheerful letters! 
Don’t write unhappily to your dear ones far away 

[83] 




Your Book and Mine 


write letters that will make them really glad. Of 
course, anyone who cares for you is anxious to share 
your real troubles, to give comfort to you in your 
hour of trial, to say the helpful word when you need it. 
Of course any one who loves you would be bitterly 
hurt if you kept your real difficulties away from him, 
for love makes a person want to share your dark days 
as well as your bright ones. 

But, when there aren’t any real sorrows, don’t upset 
another person’s life with a recital of small worries 
and troubles. Remember that the other person cannot 
help when a dress hangs badly; remember that he can’t 
look across hundreds of miles into the heart of you; 
remember that he has to take your words at a surface 
value. 

There are times, I know, when it’s hard to write 
bright, newsy letters—there are times when, for no 
particular reason, things look gray colored and un¬ 
pleasant. And it’s then that it’s easiest to write morbid 
thoughts, it’s then that your viewpoint is apt to seem 
warped and distorted and sad. It’s then that the let¬ 
ters you write are dark mirrors that reflect untruth¬ 
fully the little commonplaces of life. 

At such times, it seems to me, it would be better not 
to write letters. At such times it would be far better 
for everybody if you ran out of doors and filled your¬ 
self full of sunshine and blue sky and fresh air—if you, 
perhaps, went hard at work on that pile of undarned 
( stockings, or the torn dress that you never found time 
to mend. It would be better if you read a good book, 
or baked a pie, or did anything —but zarite letters. 

[84] 




Write Cheereul Letters 


Leave the letters for a day when you have happy feel¬ 
ings, and happy things to write about. 

Write cheerfully—and tactfully. Write words that 
will be constructive rather than destructive. When 
there’s good news write it in big letters—and under¬ 
line it. And when there’s bad news leave it out, if 
you possibly can! 


[35] 




Your Book and Mine 


INDIAN SUMMER 

The world is very quiet, now, 

The weary head of summer rests 
Upon the autumn’s tranquil breast— 

The ripened fruit upon the bough 
Is motionless . . . The very air 

Seems half afraid to stir, the sky 
In which wee, swan-like clouds float by, 
Is like a far-off silent prayer. 

How can we speak of love, we two, 

When earth things seem so far away? 
When all the feelings of the day 
And its emotions, touch the blue 
Of dim eternity? Your hand, 

Your eyes, your arms, your very lips 
Seem centuries from me, life slips 
Without a sound, from where we stand. 

Passion is dead, in this calm place; 

In autumn can the heart he young? 

The dearest songs have all been sung, 

Their memory cannot erase 

The spell of sleep that holds us here, 

A drowsy spell that nature weaves— 

And yet, my very soul believes 
Your voice when it has called me “dear.” 


[86] 




Indian Summer 


When spring, so sweet, has passed us by, 
When all the joyous months have sped, 
When fragrant flower hosts are dead, 
And winds of winter soon will cry— 
Should we, two pilgrims of stern ways, 
Forget the chill that is to be, 

And find the old, mad mystery 
In these last, truce-like, golden days? 


[87] 




Your Book and Mine 


WHEN AUTUMN COMES—A PRAYER 

When autumn creeps across my life, I pray that I may be 
As vivid as a scarlet branch, upon a maple tree— 

I pray that I may stand erect, a torch against the sky, 

A challenge to each chilling wind that seeks to hurry by. 

I pray that I may glow with joy, despite the fact that age, 
Is turning, with a wrinkled hand, my closely written page. 

When autumn sways across my world, I pray that I may 
meet 

Its progress with a flashing song of gladness—not defeat! 
I pray that I may flame with hope, when other souls are 
brown, 

And that, still tinted with delight, I softly settle down 
Upon a carpet laid for me by all the waiting earth— 

I pray that, like a maple branch, I meet the end with mirth ! 

When autumn fastens on the land, and snow is in the air 
I pray that I may understand—and that I may not care, 
And that, though evergreens file past, in their own youth¬ 
ful way, 

The red and gold that fill my heart may be supremely gay. 
I pray that I may fling aloft my challenge and my smile— 
Although the gleam of me shall last for such a little while! 


[88] 




When Autumn Comes—A Prayer 


When autumn creeps across my life, I pray that I may face 
The future like a maple branch, with courage and with 
grace. 

I pray that I may be a torch, against the heavy sky, 
Though leaves, from all the sleeping wood, are swiftly 
blowing by. 

I pray that I may blush for joy—I pray that I may be 
As vivid as a scarlet branch upon a maple tree. 


[89] 



















To all who have felt the shadow of pain or sadness, 

To all who have suffered the bitterness of loss; 

To all who have doubted, a moment, the utter wisdom, 
That lies in the shade of a grim and blackened cross. 
To all who have felt that youth, itself, is pointless, 
That age comes swiftly, and speaks with rentless tone; 
To all who have grieved for a dream, or an ideal, broken— 
And have realized, at last, that they do not grieve alone! 











A Prayer eor Memory—On New Year's Day 


A PRAYER FOR MEMORY- 
ON NEW YEAR’S DAY 

Dear God, as I look down the lane that leads into the past, 

I see that just my tiny dreams have been the ones to last— 

The wistful hopes, and childish faiths; the gentle, happy 
tears, 

Glance out at me, all down the lane that leads across the 
years. 

The first blue sash I ever owned, the violets I found 

When April cast her garment down upon the throbbing 
ground; 

The home of white with vivid blinds, that stood upon a hill, 

A golden song of long ago that caused my soul to thrill. 

Pale moonlight on the silver snow, and skies star-pierced 
and bright, 

The rosy glow of dawn against the draperies of night; 

And young love’s kiss upon my lips, and young love’s 
shaken voice— 

Dear God, these are the things that make a woman’s 
heart rejoice! 

Oh, I have known the urge of life, and I have conquered 
loss, 

And I have felt my courage rise, as I have touched my 
cross; 

And I have won sweet victories, and put away dispair, 

But, God, it is the little things that make the lane so fair! 

[ 93 ] 





Your Book and Mine 


As I look down the lane of, time, upon this New Year’s 
Day, 

I pray that you, dear God on High, will never take away, 
These happy hours that I have found, these moments I 
have met, 

And that you’ll call me, e’er I grow so old that I’ll forget! 


t 


[ 94 ] 




Admitting Things 


Admitting Things 

When we were naughty way back in our school days 
—when we were saucy to teacher, when we passed 
notes, or whispered to each other, or did any other of 
the annoying things that children do in school—we 
were usually punished by being sent out alone to a 
dreary place known as the cloakroom. I remember 
it well—for I was sent there many times—as a gray, 
narrow place with a large variety of coats and macki¬ 
naws and jackets hung in soldierly rows upon wooden 
pegs. There were no windows in the cloakroom, there 
were no books or pictures to divert the young mind 
from the ways of repentance. There were not even 
any chairs—the small sinner was forced to stand in a 
corner and contemplate, silently, the empty, accusing 
coats. 

One stayed in the cloakroom for varying lengths of 
time. Sometimes for ten minutes only, one stood in 
the corner and wondered at the ways of life. But 
sometimes a child would stay in the cloakroom for the 
whole of a school session. And sometimes a child 
would even stay past the session and suffer the dis¬ 
grace of being “kept in.” 

The punishment, in the first place, was meted out— 
and justly—by the teacher. But the length of the 
punishment depended upon the child, and upon no 
one else. For the child was only obliged to stay in the 
cloakroom until he was sorry —and was willing to 
admit it. The child was only forced to stay in the dim, 

[95] 




Your Book and Mine: 


narrow closet until he was ready to tell his teacher, in 
front of the whole school, that he realized his mis¬ 
takes. 

Always, when I was forced to spend time in the 
cloakroom, I was very soon sorry. Always, after five 
minutes of self-judgment, I knew, in my own heart, 
that I was being justly punished. But I have stayed 
for over an hour in the cloakroom tearfully trying to 
screw up my courage to the point of a public confes¬ 
sion. I have gone, more than once, to the door—and 
have hurried back to the shelter of the room with its 
empty cloaks that had no eyes to watch me with, and 
no ears with which to listen. 

As a child I found it easy enough to be sorry. I 
bitterly regretted my small mistakes, I shed many a 
salty tear over my apparently unavoidable naughti¬ 
ness. But I found it hard to admit to outsiders, as 
readily as I would admit it to my own soul, that I was 
wrong or naughty. I found it hard to confess, even 
though I knew that forgiveness would rapidly follow 
my confession! 

I read a story, yesterday, in a certain magazine— 
the story of a woman who had been the unwilling ac¬ 
cessory to a crime. She had had no real part in the wrong¬ 
doing—she had only played the role that is often a 
disastrous one, the role of innocent bystander. When 
she learned, through the newspapers, the real meaning 
of events that had puzzled her, she was appalled and 
startled. And then the horror of the situation con¬ 
fronted her, and she felt the clutch of panic’s hand. 

At first she contemplated confessing her part in the 
affair. She admitted to herself that she had acted fool- 


[96] 




Admitting Things 


ishly, and without sound judgment—that she had been 
the tool of unscrupulous people who were cleverer 
than she. But as the panicky sensation grew she de¬ 
cided that she would not tell her part in the affair. She 
argued to herself that she had been blameless; that she 
had only used poor judgment. And she told herself 
that it would be humiliating to confess to the authori¬ 
ties that she had been silly. 

It was all right to realize her own deficiencies, all 
right to admit, to herself, that she had been unwise. 
But she could not admit to other folk those things 
that she knew to be true. She was afraid to face their 
almost certain feeling of contempt, their equally cer¬ 
tain ridicule. And because she would not admit it she 
laid the foundation of one of the most baffling myster¬ 
ies in the world of crime—a mystery in which she, 
later, became terribly involved. 

I often think, as I look through the daily papers, that 
there are doubtless many crimes that could be solved 
if some person were willing to face the notoriety and * 
perhaps—the laughter of the multitude. I often won¬ 
der what sort of a world we’d have if more people 
were willing to admit to others those things that they 
do not hesitate to tell to themselves. 

I have known a good many professional people— 
artists, poets, and writers—who, though they know 
that they turn out good work, refuse to admit it. They 
know that they are satisfied with what they have ac¬ 
complished and yet, to the outsider, they display a 
false modesty. I have asked a good many people, point- 
blank, whether they thought that they did good work 

[ 97 ] 




Your Book and Mind 


and to date only one has answered me, frankly, and 
said: 

“Yes, I do think that my work is good. If I didn’t 
think so, I wouldn’t do it!” Only one, out of many, 
has answered me so, and yet I am sure that many 
of the people who have answered less honestly would 
bitterly resent a well-merited criticism from an out¬ 
sider. 

It’s the hardest thing in the world, almost, to ad¬ 
mit one’s faults. And curiously, it’s almost as hard 
to admit one’s virtues. All alone, in a silent cloak¬ 
room, admissions come easily, but it’s a very different 
matter when the world—or some portion of it—is look¬ 
ing on from the sidelines. It’s even hard, sometimes, 
to admit one’s failings and ambitions to one’s own 
mother. 

But it is not hard to tell a certain Someone all the 
doubts and the troubles, the failures and the successes. 
That’s something to remember. And that Someone 
is always present, always ready to listen to confes¬ 
sions—be they the confessions of a small repentant 
child, or of a hardened criminal. That Someone is 
waiting, with an infinite tenderness and a boundless 
patience—waiting with loving hands outstretched in 
compassion. 

With loving hands outstretched! That’s the thing 
to remember. The Someone that you should confess 
to, the Someone that you should talk to, as easily and 
simply as a child talks to a friend, is not waiting coldly 
to pass judgment upon you. He is waiting in the si¬ 
lence, with an understanding that is so deep that no 
explanations are necessary. 

[98 1 




A Song of March 


A SONG OF MARCH 

March may be sombre and grey-clad and drear, 
March may be shaped of a sob and a tear, 

March may be sullen, not given to laughter— 

Oh, March may be weary—but April comes after! 

Wind storm and snow storm, and slush in the street, 
Hail on the window, mud under the feet— 

Sighing of tempests, and skies that are sad, 

March may be sombre, and grim and grey-clad! 

Winter’s last flourish, the end of his power, 

Ice for a moment and sleet for an hour, 

Frost, and the threat of dark clouds over-head— 

But April is waiting to reign in his stead! 

March is a venomous, angry old age, 

Writing a will on a torn, blotted page, 

Frowning at youth, and at youth’s heedless laughter— 
But April is springtime, and April comes after! 


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[ 99 ] 





Your Book and Mine 


WHEN TEARS ARE CLOSE 

When tears are close, 

There is one line I say— 
“The One who cares is not 
So far away!” 

When all the room of life, 

Is dark to me, 

I tell myself, “His eyes, 

Can always see!” 

When hope seems swept away, 
And sad I roam, 

I whisper—“Peace—His hand, 
Will draw me Home !” 



[ 100 ] 





April Wind 


APRIL WIND 

April came through the window; April came on the 
breeze; 

Singing a song of springtime, singing of budding trees; 

Singing of love in the sunshine and violets dim in the rain, 

Singing a song of madness—and lo, we were young again! 

So we took out the letters lying ribbon-tied in the chest, 

Where we had laid them gently—as folk leave the dead 
to rest— 

And we read them over together, and our hands were 
clasped, and your head 

Was very close to my shoulder—very close as we read! 

There was a lilting love song (outside the spring winds 
blew), 

Breathing of dreams and magic—dreams that have all 
come true! 

There was a spray of lilac—shrivelled and old and grey, 

But it was sweet with romance, dear, in the yesterday. 

There was a shaken letter—stained with a tear or two— 

When we had almost parted, talking as young things do. 

There was a word half written, crossed with a scratching 
line— 

Just half a word but tender, as your warm lips on mine. 


[ 101 ] 





Your Book and Mine: 


There was a hope as gentle as rosy dawn on the hill, 

(Outside the winds were blowing, and April stood on the 
sill— 

Stood at the sill of the window) and you smiled into my 
eyes, 

And the letters scattered between us like frail white but¬ 
terflies. 

And all about us was music—a wonderful world-old song, 

Singing of spring eternal—and of love that is lifelong— 

Singing of love in the sunshine, and violets sweet in the 
rain, 

Singing a song of madness—and lo, we were young again! 


[102] 




Answer 


ANSWER 

Sometimes, when doubting the presence of love and kind¬ 
ness, 

Sometimes, when even my heart has ceased to sing— 
Sometimes, when all of my soul is swept with blindness, 
When there seems no purpose, no weight, to anything. 
Then, when my spirit is stretching its hands for pity, 
Reaching dumb hands that are fragile and very weak, 

I hear a Voice that rings through the sullen city, 

And these are the words that I seem to hear it speak: 

“There is no death, there is no pain, no sorrow, 

“Lift your eyes to the brooding skies, and see — 
“There is a chance in every new tomorrow, 

“There is a way to shape each destiny. . . . 

“Always a light will guide your brave endeavor, 
“When, through the dark, you seek life's path again — 
“There is no parting — not, at least, forever — 

“There is no death, no sorrow, and no pain!" 


[ 103 ] 




Your Book and Mine: 


AWAKENING 

The little blades of grass are coming through 
The places where last winter’s snow lay deep— 

The sky above my head is wide and blue, 

Where storm clouds used to sleep. 

There is a hint of lilac on the air, 

The sun has coaxed away the frost’s vague chill; 

A breeze sweeps down, and ruffles through my hair, 
From the far hill. 

Somewhere a bird has built again his nest, 
Somewhere a gentle flower will raise its head; 

All life is warm again on nature’s breast, 

Where life was dead. 

Springtime has opened, with a golden key, 

Still mountain streams and frozen little lakes— 

And in the tired, ice-bound heart of me, 

An old song wakes! 


[ 104- ] 




The Child You Used To Be 


The Child You Used to Be 

The old man raised a hand, wrinkled and gnarled 
with rheumatism, to his forehead. I thought at first 
that he was tired—for the gesture was almost one of 
weariness. But when he lowered his hand, suddenly, 
I saw that he was smiling. 

“A penny for your thoughts,” he said, and his voice 
was jovial, “a new, shiny penny for ’em.” 

I hesitated. And then— 

“A penny wouldn’t buy them!” I told him. 

The old man chuckled. 

“You’re bein’ tactful,” he said, “I know. The 
thoughts weren’t worth s’ much, like as not, but you’re 
afraid that they’ll make me feel bad! You were think- 
in’ that I’m old—an’ tired. Ain’t that so?” 

I made no denial. Indeed I could feel myself flush¬ 
ing, for I had been thinking that he was old and tired. 

The old man’s chuckle had grown into a laugh. It 
was reassuringly untired, that laugh. 

“I’m not old,” he said between spasms of mirth, 
“why, child, I’m th’ youngest thing livin’, inside! My 
hair’s white, maybe, an’ my eyes are dim. But my 
heart’s standin’ on its head, it’s that kittenish. My 
legs may be not so steady and my hands may shake 
a little mite—but my soul’s turning somersaults. I 
have feelin’s that make me want to go fishin’ in th’ 
crick, or playin’ hooky, or runnin’ off to the circus. 
I’m not old!” 

There was something so catching in his mirth that I 

[105] 




Your Book and Mine: 


too, my momentary embarrassment forgotten, was 
laughing. 

“I hope/’ I told him, “that I’ll feel as you do when my 
hair is white and my hands are shaky. What’s your recipe 
for keeping young inside? I’d like to know.” 

The old man answered me in a voice that was sur¬ 
prisingly serious. 

“Always,” he told me, “you must fix it so as the little 
girl you used to be can come back and talk over your 
yesterdays with you! That’s the recipe that I’ve al¬ 
ways used. I have it fixed so as the boy that was me 
comes most every night, when the sun’s goin’ down, 
and tells me things that I’ve forgotten. He’s a strange 
little boy with big eyes and big ideas an’ overalls that 
are patched pretty much. An’ we talk by the hour, 
we do. Sometimes we go off, together, down the 
country road for a holiday. The both of us are laugh¬ 
in’, usually, when we go. Sometimes,” his voice soft¬ 
ened rather marvelously, “sometimes I can’t help 
thinkin’ it’ll be like that when th’ end comes—him 
an’ me just going down a country road together—an’ 
both of us laughin’!” 

And I could not help feeling that the old man’s vis¬ 
ion of' his passing was a beautiful dream. And my 
hand rested, for a moment, upon his—which was old 
and rheumatic and gnarled and not very steady, and 
we smiled. 

The little girl I used to be was a serious child with 
pigtails and a wide inquiring gaze and knees that were 
always black and blue. She, like the old man’s little 
boy visitor, had large ideas. She felt that she would 
one day remake a world—that she would some time be 

[106] 




The Chied You Used To Be 


famous, and queenly, and a glittering success. When 
she grew up into the woman that is me she realized 
how very much ideas may shrink. But she also real¬ 
ized that her little dreams and theories and hopes had 
grown into the shield and lance with which I should 
fight for my small successes—with which I should 
shield myself against disappointments and failures. 

I have thought, often, of the old man’s recipe for 
keeping young inside—thought rather wistfully, for 
he has gone on now, down the Country Road. And 
it’s when I’m thinking of him that the little girl comes 
back to me. And we laugh together over some al¬ 
most forgotten wee joke, and we mourn the broken 
doll, and we memorize once more the particularly 
long and different golden text. And as I go over my 
yesterdays with her I can feel the joy of childhood 
creeping into my heart—and the peace of childhood 
flooding my soul. 

Never grow to be so old or so dignified that the 
little girl or little boy you used to be is forced to 
leave you for keeps! Be young enough and willing 
enough to welcome back, sometimes, the child that 
you were. You’ll not regret it! For the child that 
you used to be is a wonder child—the child that you 
used to be is yourself. 

And through the eyes of that child you may be 
permitted to look into the face of truth, and thiough 
the maze of make-believes, and past the portals of the 
land where dreams come true. 


[ 107 ] 




Your Book and Mine 




ROMANCE LAND 

The romance land of Yesterday, 

Is sometimes seen through tears, 
That make a rainbow, far away, 

And veil the sorry years 
In mystic colors, silver sweet 
With mingled joy and pain; 

That hide the roads our pilgrim feet, 
May never tread again. 

The romance land of Yesterday, 

Is gay, sometimes, with mirth, 

That lilts like little sprites, at play, 
Across the tired earth. 

Until the troubles of the hour, 

In happy smiles are dressed, 

And lonely hearts are all a-flower, 
With hopes and joys unguessed. 

The romance land of Yesterday, 

Is filled with faiths that died, 

And some of them are dimly gray, 
And some are starry eyed! 

And some of them will live once more, 
In word, in tender look— 

And some of them are verses for 
Life’s great, immortal book. 


[108] 




Romance Land 


The romance land of Yesterday— 
It sometimes, almost, seems 
As if our outstretched fingers may 
Half touch its vanished dreams! 
A broken song, a scrap of lace, 

A faded rose, a sigh, 

May bring us, swiftly, face to face, 
With all that has passed by! 


[ 109 ] 




Your Book and Mine: 


WHEN EASTER COMES 

I like to picture Christ who walked beside blue Galilee, 
As just a smiling little boy, who loved the ruffled sea— 
Who loved the vivid, wide-winged birds, the sunlight, and 
the flowers, 

Who loved the twilight’s gentleness, and night’s star- 
studded hours. 

He did not dream of fear or pain, I like to think that he 
Felt not a shadowing of dread, of life’s sad mystery— 

I like to think he did not dream of crosses raised on high, 
To stand in grim relief against the thunder of the sky! 

Perhaps he gathered violets when spring was on the land, 
And carried them to Mary in his tiny dimpled hand; 
Perhaps he found a pink lined shell and held it to his ear, 
And listened for the voices that all children love to hear. 

When Easter comes, and lilies bloom and nature seems to 
wake, 

I do not like to think of Christ as One men tried to 
break. . . . 

I like to see him, in my heart, run o’er the silver shore 
To where his mother waited him, beside a cottage door! 


[ 110 ] 




Decoration Day 


DECORATION DAY 

Where poppies blow across the sea, where green mounds 
rise above the plain, 

Where tiny star-eyed daisies grow to hide a sad world’s 
fear and pain; 

Where kind skies dream, and breezes croon, and battle 
scars are swept away, 

Where peace clasps hands with reverence —there it is 
Decoration Day! 

Oh, every hurt will heal in time, as each shorn branch will 
bear new flowers, 

And lips will learn to laugh again, and hearts will throb 
through joyous hours; 

And every hero lad will know, who fought for some one 
he loved best, 

That happiness will come again to pierce the silence of 
his rest. 

They died, as did the ones before, a singing army to the 
last 

Upholding all the glowing pride that led the soldiers in 
the past; 

Upholding all the nation’s wealth of high ideals and gal¬ 
lant truth, 

They went with eyes and chins raised high, in all the 
wonder of their youth! 


[Ill] 




Your Book and Mins 


Bull Run and Belleau Wood . . . brave names! Red 

Gettysburg and the Argonne— 

They met the foe and fought and fell; but, oh, their souls 
go marching on; 

Go marching on, with soundless tread, across an endless 
span of days, 

Until they come to homely scenes, and dear, familiar coun¬ 
try ways! 

So we should try to smile our faith through tears that fall 
like summer rain, 

For well we know that poppies blow, that daisies bloom 
on field and plain; 

That kind skies bend, like mother forms, and battle scars 
are swept away— 

And that, as peace and prayer clasp hands, our land knows 
Decoration Day! 



[113] 




Petition 


PETITION 

* 

God grant that I may always know 
The beauty of a dream— 

And that, when I am called to go 
Across life’s silver stream 

To meet the Great Reality, the sunset’s ruddy glow 
May paint a dear, remembered road. . . . 

God grant that youth-time’s gleam 
Will cause my heart to lose its load 
Of age and toil and woe: 

God grant to me a tender dream, 

When I am called to go! 

A little dream ... a cottage door, 

And roses sweet with rain, 

And sunlight dancing on the floor, 

And love as keen as pain. 

A little dream of mignonette, 

And hands that touch my hair, 

And laughter, soft as vain regret, 

And eyes that find me fair. 

A simple dream of simple things, 

A dress of drowsy blue, 

A vivid yellow bird that sings . . . 

And, oh, the voice of you! 

A dream of silences that cry, 

And words left half unsaid; 

A dream of hopes that never die, 

And fears that long are dead. 

[ 113 ] 




Your Book and Mine: 


God, in Your own far Heaven place, 

This is the prayer I make— 

When you have shown, at last, Your Face 
And bid the sleeper wake, 

Let me remember, if I may , 

The dream that was my yesterday! 


[ 114 J 




Frosted Geass 


Frosted Glass 

In a room where I do much of my work they have 
torn down a dark mahogany partition that my desk 
used to stand against. And in its place they have 
built another partition—one of frosted glass. And I 
like it so much better than the wood that I used to 
stare at, whenever I raised my eyes from my type¬ 
writer. For the wood was dark, and unchanging, 
and monotonous. And there wasn’t much about it 
that gave any play to the imagination. But the glass 
is bright and cheery. And, though I can’t see through 
it any more easily than I could have glanced through 
the polished surface of the mahogany, the sunlight 
is able to creep in. And the sparkle of it is like 
music, sometimes. And sometimes it’s as gay as 
lyric verse. 

It’s strange how much difference a glass partition 
makes in an office. The place, before the glass parti¬ 
tion was in, had a way of looking dingy, even when 
it had been just freshly dusted. But now the sunlight, 
flooding through the frosted glass, doesn’t give the 
dinginess a chance. And the dust, if there ever was 
any dust, would be almost pretty, I think, in the mel¬ 
low glow of the happy little sunbeams. I even think 
that my thoughts are more glad, since the dark parti¬ 
tion was taken away. I even think that it is easier 
to write poetry than sober prose in this room. I wish 
that all of my work might be done where a glow of 






Your Book and Mine 


4 


sunlight falls—whenever there’s a bit of sunshine to 
fall—across the prosaic keys of my typewriter! 

Of course, as I said before, I can’t see anything 
through the frosted glass. It isn’t quite as though the 
partition were a broad, clear window looking out 
over a pleasant vista of fields, and farmlands, and 
stretches of forest. The frosted glass, for all its 
brightness, is rather mysterious. There’s no telling 
what may be in back of its bright, but blank, spaces. 
And I find, for that reason, a special fund of amuse¬ 
ment. For I can imagine a view—a different view 
each day, if I will, to fit my changing moods! Some¬ 
times, when the city has been stifled in a mirage-like 
cloak of heat, I like to imagine that, just beyond the 
frosted glass, there is a stretch of silver sand, and, 
just beyond that, a long, foam-crested surface of green 
waves that reach out, longingly, to the place where the 
blue sky softly touches the horizon line. I like to 
imagine one or two stray sea birds; slim gulls that 
float gracefully in the clear air, dipping, ever so often, 
down to the shining sea. 

And then, on rainy days, when a soft silver light 
falls through the frosted glass partition, I like to think 
of the woods—just after a storm. When they are 
dripping, and violet-tinted, and touched with an eerie 
romance. I can tell myself, on a dim day, that there’s 
just such a place, lying on the other side of the par¬ 
tition! I can almost feel the raindrops falling on my 
uncovered head from the low hanging green branches. 
I can almost feel the ooze of the moss under my feet 
—but I don’t have to worry about head colds and 

[ 116 ] 




Frosted Geass 


rheumatism, for I’m only making believe! I can 
almost see a stray flower, peeping at me from beneath 
shielding, broad leaves. And I can almost glimpse, 
where the branches are least dense, a faint flicker of 
the clearing sky. 

And, on days that are neither hot nor rainy, I can 
paint any mental picture that most pleases me. It 
can be a picture of a glorious sunset, all red and gold 
and purple. It can be a pleasant white farmhouse— 
the sort of farmhouse that I most enjoy dreaming 
about. A white one, with green blinds and rambler 
roses climbing over the pretty door, with its brass 
knocker and its fanlight. I can imagine snow-capped 
mountain peaks, and great torrents rushing through 
canyons. I can imagine hundreds of pictures, and 
each one is more satisfying than the last! 

Sometimes, behind the veil of the frosted glass, when 
it is a-gleam with the light of the sun, I think of 
memory pictures, too. Pictures that will always be 
closest to my heart. Pictures of things that I have 
enjoyed in the years gone by. Of a thunderstorm that 
I saw, once, when I was a child. A storm that I 
witnessed when I was above the clouds, in a very 
high place on the Catskill mountains. Of a silk dress 
that a lady, whom I admired very much, once wore. 
A dress of creamy old silk that was garlanded with 
plump little wreaths of roses. Sometimes, behind the 
screen of the frosted glass, I imagine faces that I have 
loved, and that have gone from me, for a little while. 
Faces that smile at me, and that I can see, now, only 
in memory. 


[ 117 ] 






Your Book and Mine) 


Somehow the room where I do much of my work 
seems, to me, a little like life. First of all there is 
a dark partition. And we can’t see through it—we 
can only hope. There isn’t much play for the imag¬ 
ination, and things are apt to seem rather dingy. And 
then, all at once, the wooden partition is taken away. 
By some power that may be called experience, or 
understanding. Some power that comes to us, per¬ 
haps, through suffering, through pain. Some power 
that may drift in with the brightness of a great love. 
Or a splendid faith and trust. And then life is like 
a room with frosted glass partitions, through which 
the sun can shine with an increasing brightness. And 
though we can’t see what lies on the other side of the 
partition, it is given to us to imagine all manner of 
lovely vistas. All manner of glorious views. And, 
sometimes, we can dream that faces smile at us—the 
dear faces that have become our most blessed rpem- 
ories. And that is the most precious imagining that life 
can give to us. 

And then, at the end, I like to think that the frosted 
glass partition becomes clear. And that we are per¬ 
mitted to see what does lie on the other side, just as 
we are able to look through a broad window. And I 
like to think that then our imaginings are made per¬ 
fect, and that our dreams come true. And that, when 
we have had our full of gazing, we will find it very 
easy to push up the partition of clear glass, that has 
miraculously become a window, and step over the low 
sill to the Other Side. 


[ 118 ] 




Back op the Sunset 


BACK OF THE SUNSET 

Somewhere, back of the sunset, when the evening shadows 
fall, 

There is a heart that listens, and answers my own heart’s 
call ... 

Somewhere kind hands are waiting, a face that is filled 
with love 

Looks down at me very sweetly from a wonderful Home 
above. 

Somewhere, back of the sunset, a laugh rings out through 
the sky: 

Happiness lives there, always—and a peace that will not 
die. 

Pain and distress and worry, grief and untold despair, 

They are passed by—for the sunset sheds only a bright¬ 
ness there. 

Somewhere, back of the colors that come at the end of day, 

She lives in a land of flowers, and none of them fade 
away— 

And her fingers flash in the sunlight, and her lips are lovely 
with mirth, 

And her ears hear the prettiest music that never is heard 
on earth! 


[ 119 ] 




Your Book and Mine: 


Loneliness, wistfulness, longing—what does she know of 
these, 

Where the days are tinted with splendor, and the nights 
are soft with ease? 

Where dreams may be had for the asking, and wishes come 
always true, 

Where the ground is as green as springtime, and the clouds 
are forever blue! 

Somewhere, back of the sunset, the prayers that we breathe 
shall rise, 

And rest, like a kiss that is gentle, on a pair of joy-filled 
eyes— 

Somewhere, back of the sunset, when the evening shadows 
fall, 

There is a heart that listens, and answers my own heart's 
call! 


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